


insatiable curiosity

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: the fan-maker and the fan [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon Era, Enjolras' Ethereal Beauty, Established Relationship, Fluff, Lists, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25379326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: Feuilly gets asked a lot about him and Enjolras. He never gives a straight answer.
Relationships: Enjolras/Feuilly
Series: the fan-maker and the fan [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815292
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	insatiable curiosity

Feuilly gets asked a lot about him and Enjolras. He never gives a straight answer.

Courfeyrac elbows him in the ribs, when they sit next to each other at meetings. Feuilly _likes_ sitting next to Courfeyrac, for the most part. He’s warm and friendly in the effortless way that Feuilly has never gotten the knack of, and he’s great at putting people at ease. Most of their new recruits pass through Courfeyrac’s influence at some point or another, expecting fun and games and getting educated in republicanism instead. (The only time that hadn’t worked was with Marius Pontmercy, a lost duckling of a man who had once made a passionate speech defending Napoleon Bonaparte to the group, and had been shut down by Combeferre as a result.)

That’s what Feuilly remembers, anyway, but these days, Courfeyrac has become the master of the knowing look, the raised eyebrow, and the salacious wink. This was the man who schemed for a year and a half to get him and Enjolras together, after all, and he wasn’t shy with what words he used.

“Come on now, Feuilly,” Courfeyrac would say, on the rare occasions he convinces Feuilly to drink with them. “Tell us about Enjolras. What’s he _like_?”

And Feuilly would blush (he was never any good at hiding that) and Bahorel would roar with laughter and start to hypothesize about the various virtues of Enjolras, ranked in terms of desirability. If he was lucky, Prouvaire would be there too, to scold Bahorel and Courfeyrac about interfering with True Love, and he would smile at Feuilly gently, and that was almost as embarrassing.

“Don’t mind them,” Prouvaire would say.

“I don’t,” Feuilly would lie, and he would take a drink to have an explanation for the redness of his face.

“But, out of curiosity, things _are_ going well with Enjolras, right?” And Prouvaire, relentless gossip that he was, would have the gall to look concerned instead of gleeful.

And Feuilly would nod, and feel like his head was going to explode from embarrassment, and take another drink.

-

Feuilly’s coworkers are very curious about who he’s seeing. He does his best to keep the answers vague.

They’ve met Enjolras before, on an extremely awkward day that Feuilly will never forget. He had only been vaguely aware of how Enjolras looked before, but afterwards, with everyone practically raving about the polite, handsome young man who spoke with the voice of angels—

—well, suffice it to say that he had been made aware.

Therese had always been like an older sister to him, but did she have to pry like one too?

“Feuilly’s got a lover, I’ve heard,” she trills one day, sitting next to him during their lunch break and putting an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s all congratulate him!”

They cheer, because Therese is the worst and they’ve been trying to set him up ever since he came to work with them.

“Well, tell us about the lucky lady,” Therese says. “Did she fall in love with you for your fan-making skills? Which I have to tell you, are improving in detail, so I compliment you on that.”

“Um,” Feuilly says, because he isn’t good at lying about himself. About the Friends of the ABC, he can, with relish and smiles, but this?

“Wait, wait, we don’t know if it’s a lady,” Angelique says, tossing her curls. Feuilly hates how his face turns red, but he can’t exactly hide it without looking ridiculous.

They bat around speculations for the rest of the day, about how they met, who first confessed their feelings, and most importantly, if Feuilly has bought his beloved any gifts yet. While the enthusiasm in which his coworkers give recommendations is sweet, he doubts any of them are relevant to his current situation.

They wish him good luck when he goes home.

-

Feuilly doesn’t tell Enjolras about the questions he gets.

Oh, he wouldn’t lie to him when asked a direct question, of course, and if Enjolras had pressed the issue, he would explain it in its entirety. But he doesn’t like to worry Enjolras.

If Feuilly was forced to answer, he would concede that these are the facts:

  1. Enjolras puts him to bed by force, if necessary.



“Just one more chapter,” Feuilly mutters, fending off a hug from Enjolras weakly. If he lets himself be hugged, he will let himself be wrapped in blankets, he will let himself be led to the bed, and he will let himself be put to sleep.

He can’t let himself be put to sleep. He was _just_ getting to the part about internationalism, for Christ’s sake.

“You can read that tomorrow,” Enjolras whines. Before they had gotten together, Feuilly would never dare imagine Enjolras doing something as petty as whining. But he does, and Feuilly has a weakness for it, as he does most things. “You need your rest.”

“Five more pages,” he negotiates. That would take him to the introduction of the chapter, and probably a discussion.

Enjolras considers this. “Three pages. And I expect you to go straight to sleep afterwards.”

“Done.” He could sneak out of bed later, and read by moonlight. Candles and lamp oil would be an additional expense.

It is only after midnight that he realizes that Enjolras has an arm and a leg thrown over him to keep him in bed, and that he holds fast no matter how hard Feuilly tries to extricate himself.

  1. Enjolras cuddles. A lot.



The first time it happens, they are just coming in from the cold, so Feuilly doesn’t think much of it. One second, he’s shaking snow from his clothes, and the next, Enjolras is clinging to him and dragging him further inside, his smile radiant and nose red from the cold.

The second time, Feuilly thinks it’s just a thank you for getting the pamphlets about worker rights distributed, and Enjolras is very enthusiastic about worker rights. He doesn’t let go of Feuilly that night, and their hands stay entwined until the morning.

The fifth time, there’s no special occasion. They talk about their dreams of the future, but that happens all the time. Enjolras rehearses his speech about the liberation of France and the end of men ruling over men, but all the time his chin is hooked over Feuilly’s shoulder and his arms are around him, and Feuilly feels very warm.

The eighteenth time, Enjolras nearly tackles him, and he does the same to Enjolras in return. The landlady comes upstairs to make a complaint, but ends up laughing at them.

Eventually, Feuilly stops keeping count of the incidents. He just accepts them.

Enjolras smiles more, he thinks.

  1. Feuilly has a habit of stealing food from Enjolras’ plate.



He can’t help it. Enjolras eats so little, and still remains extremely healthy, and he ignores the food and it’s sitting right _there_ —

—it’s nothing at first. A bit of bacon and a quarter of a potato. Enjolras laughs.

“You can just ask me next time,” he says, spooning the rest on Feuilly’s plate.

“This way is more fun. We get to practice tactics.”

“Hm,” Enjolras says, and chews some more.

He does it again the next time they eat together. The stew was getting cold, and Enjolras was poring over an essay. It would have been a waste of food.

After some time, Enjolras starts to build barricades of food, and Feuilly picks them apart, little by little. The food gets eaten, and the barricades get built again, and again, and again.

  1. Feuilly knows Enjolras’ first name, now.



“That’s private,” Enjolras says, frowning when he sees the mail in Feuilly’s hand.

“Sorry.” He drops the letters like a hot coal and even brushes his fingers off on his waistcoat, for Enjolras’ benefit. “I didn’t read anything but the addresses, I promise.”

Enjolras pales. “Oh. Well, that’s all right then. Nothing incriminating there.” He picks up the letters and shuffles them, his fingers just a tiny bit clumsy.

“By the way, can I call you by your first name, or—”

“—No,” Enjolras says, decisively.

  1. Enjolras adopts a cat, and Feuilly enables him.



“I couldn’t just leave it there to drown,” Enjolras says, holding the cat by the scruff of its neck in front of the fire to dry. The bedraggled ball of fur takes it in stride, even though Feuilly knows it’s probably uncomfortable.

“Sure.” It’s none of Feuilly’s business what Enjolras chooses to do with his free time, even if that consists of rescuing animals from minor floods and spoiling them with treats and fish and soft beds.

“You should name it. I want you to have the honor,” Enjolras says, and he lays the cat in Feuilly’s lap. It hisses and makes an attempt at scratching him through the fabric of his coat. It really is a very ugly creature, but Enjolras’ smile lights up the room, and Feuilly can’t refuse him anything.

He picks up the cat, and holds it up near the fire.

“We’ll name it Robespurr.”

  1. Feuilly talks in his sleep.



Enjolras tells him this in the mornings, still sleepy-eyed and with his hair in a tangled mess. There’s even a weekly report, scribbled onto the backs of letters and spotted with ink.

“Was I really talking about the injustices of the partition of Poland in my sleep?”

Enjolras nods, solemn. “You made some very good points,” he says, tracing over the letters.

“Even while asleep.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You can read them over yourself if you’d like.” Enjolras passes the papers over, and it feels a little arrogant, reading over your own words to see if they hold up during the day, so Feuilly puts them down, and begins a different discussion.

-

Enjolras is slumped over his desk, wide forehead firmly in contact with the wood. He groans when Feuilly comes in, which is a sure sign of his horrible mood.

“What happened?” Feuilly says.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras mutters into the desk. “Courfeyrac happened.”

Feuilly frowns. Courfeyrac had never been a problem before. “What did he say?”

Enjolras shakes his head and attempts to worm deeper into the wood. “He kept asking about you and me,” he says finally, and Feuilly can see the tips of his ears turn red.

“Did you answer?”

Enjolras nods, shamefaced, and goes back to his wallowing.


End file.
